Page:All quiet along the Potomac and other poems.djvu/63

But the soul chants on what it needs must say,
In its rhythm rude, in its freeborn way,Underneath the snow.

A DREAMER'S TALE.

IN the arm-chair in the corner,Half content and wholly still,
Sat I, weaving idle fancies,As a rhyming dreamer will
Setting them to sombre rhythmAs the housewife, calm and sweet,
Trod the round of daily dutiesWith her brave, unfalt'ring feet.

Timidly a basement-beggarKnocked and asked for warmth and bread
Then along the stair and passageWent the patient, steady tread.
Then I guessed the wistful glancesBent upon the little lad;
Well I knew the fresh remembranceOn the face so fair and sad.

Out of this there grew a visionOpposite my easy-chair,
Made by idle brain and sunshine,Crossed with threads of daily care.